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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984827">i’m a dumb teen boy and all i wanna do is quit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificialCharisma/pseuds/artificialCharisma'>artificialCharisma</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/obliviousIntelligence/pseuds/obliviousIntelligence'>obliviousIntelligence</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>dream smp !! [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arguing, Bullying, Child Neglect, DadSchlatt, Dadza, Dream and Tubbo are cousins, Help, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Blame Tumblr, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Ranboo Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Tags Are Hard, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Why Did I Write This?, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, bitches are lonely, dream is puffy’s son, dream smp fandom is scary, help me i am scared, modern au boys, niki and puffy are married! :D, oh boy ya’ll r in for a ride, schlatt and puffy are siblings, this took months i am so sorry, tubbo tries to pog through the pain and fails miserably, uhhhhhh sweating</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:20:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,428</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificialCharisma/pseuds/artificialCharisma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obliviousIntelligence/pseuds/obliviousIntelligence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>—<br/>ON HIATUS!<br/>—</p>
<p>TOMMY AND TUBBO HAVE A BAD TIME: THE FIC /hj</p>
<p>I have no problems with train hoppers. Really, none at all! I thought they were cool when I was younger, them jumping around and everything!</p>
<p>I just, uh… didn’t think I’d be one.</p>
<p>The wind rushes under my feet as the wood creaks and shakes, and I have to hang onto the side of the exit to stabilize myself. I see the fields and houses pass by me- greens and beiges covering my vision in a blurred mix of colors.</p>
<p>Am I going to die doing this?</p>
<p>One way to find out, I guess.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>if the ccs want this taken down, i shall comply. /srs</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cara | CaptainPuffy/Niki | Nihachu, Ranboo &amp; Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>dream smp !! [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126814</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i’m a dumb teen boy and all i wanna do is quit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>heyo!! the first chapter has finally been posted !! please give thanks to our beta-reader/co-writer, artificialCharisma.(@dave-the-idiot on tumblr by the way!!) </p>
<p>before proceeding, i just want to give a fair warning, even if it’s in the tags i’d just like you to know that this fic will tackle bullying, child abuse, achoholism, arguments, and swearing (because tommy) if you’re uncomfortable or triggered by any of these, i’d advise you to go read something else! :] i just want everyone to feel safe and comfortable. :]] make sure to take care of yourselves as well !!! </p>
<p>again, i’m just really sorry for the delay for this chapter- it took a while to get finished. school, procrastination, etc, etc. though i do hope you enjoy it!</p>
<p>[note: this chapter was edited on 4/17/2021 because i didn’t like how it originally turned out.]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>—vVvVv—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>School is shit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t enjoy being horribly pessimistic on my view of things, it tends to drag out as dull and rather annoying. But, with this particular topic it just makes me feel slightly… </span>
  <em>
    <span>lonely?</span>
  </em>
  <span> If you have no one to talk to in class nor at home, I guess it makes sense.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Is this just me taking my life for granted? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, no, I can’t be- Schlatt isn’t… the best parent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Though, he does everything a parent would do? Why do I consider him as bad? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>...I’m selfish, I know that. I yearn for a different place to live, though my dad is fine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At moments I like thinking of being a leader. Loyal and strong, just how my dad would like me to be. Just someplace where I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignored</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I can be something.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, well, that’s just me fantasizing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(Maybe it could happen, one day.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A life where I’m not called odd for once. Somewhere where my dad doesn’t peer over my shoulder with alcohol reeking from his breath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere where I could get away from reality, I guess.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes I get dreams, most about this particular daydream of mine. The others teeter between the lines of what counts as a dream, though, seeing as the vast amounts of memories I have from the nights where I actually sleep are terrible and I’d rather forget them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I used to scream when they’d get bad.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I learned not to.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, I get out of my bed, lazily fixing up the clutter in my room. Clothes lay on the floor, along with homework that I desperately didn’t want to start. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As I step into the living room I get hit with the smell of alcohol and coffee, it’s a familiar combination, sure, with being the only two things Schlatt drinks. Both smells are rather off putting though. Coffee brings nostalgia of some sorts, though having it mixed with something extremely unpleasant.. It tends to not bring that feeling anymore.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’ve had a distaste for alcohol, even since I was a kid. It always reeked of bad intentions and blurry thoughts, with every step and breath being an unseeable action that crashes and clunks into pieces of furniture and glass bottles.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was lonely.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Schlatt was lonely. Perhaps he likes being lonely, since he didn’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He told me a story once. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I had sat near a corner in his room, I was young. Not careful enough. I had stepped on a piece of glass from a bottle that had fallen onto the floor. (I wince whenever I dare look at the scar.)</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I carefully walk through our cluttered apartment, and try not to wake my dad. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Y’know, Tubbo… you ever think about, uh, runnin’?” His voice was slightly slurred. Unfortunately, I knew that tone far too well. He was drunk. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t, fortunately. He drank a lot yesterday, for reasons that I don’t think I’ll ever know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“N-No. Haven’t thought about it,” I laughed, though not amused. I was scared.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a new story every time: another job application turned down, another glare from some time old frenemy that always kept cropping up, another fucking girl that he used to date in high school- really, the list goes on.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You sure?” He tended to tower over me, even when he’d slouch. It’d be like some sort of shadow looming over yourself, backed up against a wall.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I think he’s just trying to find reasons to drink at this point.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Can’t, uh, say I have,” I muttered, leading my gaze towards the ground.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I slide the blanket over his body, and rest him facing up on the couch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He sighed, looking down at my bandaged foot in amusement. “I once got a box, Tubbo. A box ‘n a pen ‘n some… instructions.” Despite my inner wishes, he continued, “I was going to put you in that box,” He laughed, he fucking laughed. “‘N leave you there. You ever want to do that?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>While I’m doing that, I also pick up a few empty bottles and put them at the end table.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“N… no. No, D-”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no one to really worry about him besides me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, Schlatt.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After grabbing a spare notebook or two, I dash to the exit. Upon leaving, I murmur a quick farewell, then rush out the door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—vVvVv—</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>School is shit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s it. That’s my essay- it fucking sucks. (Well, maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> for me, my brother, he totally fucking amazing Wilbur Soot - who is a part time musician, part time fucking favorite of every single teacher he encounters.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not that I would care. Tommy Watson doesn’t care about anything.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If that was bad enough, he practices at times that no single fucking human shouldn’t be a awake. He’s either blasting his so-called ‘study music’ or just a handful of songs that he has been working on. Though, yeah sure, his music is good, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that he has the audacity to keep me up at ungodly hours. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, sometimes</span>
  <em>
    <span>, (see: all the fucking time,) </span>
  </em>
  <span>I tell him off. Just a quick, “Shut the fuck up,” now and again, but a remark like that leads to some consequences, otherwise known as an angry fucking dad.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alas, my troubles in getting up in the morning are not terrible enough to bear that Wilbur decides not to shove me out of bed. I’m a bit used to it anyway, having a notorious record of waking up late, but, for once in my godforsaken life, I actually get up early. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shortly after, I exit my room; we only have one bathroom on the second floor so it’s usually a race to get there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I pass Wilbur and greet him with a “G’morning, Wilby.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I blink, relaying my sentence to myself. What did I just-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The other boy almost doubles down giggling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did- Did you just call me </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilby?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He manages to say, his words muffled by his laughter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” I say sternly, “I said, good morning, Wil</span>
  <em>
    <span>bur.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I retort, groaning. “Why the fuck would I say something else?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, I’m pretty sure you called me Wilby,” he adds. He’s still clutching the wall from the laughter, because apparently </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilby</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the height of comedy for this guy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, can it, man.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After that horrid conversation, I continue walking towards the bathroom, and my confidence in being first, (and well, the only one there) Wilbur was right behind me. The bitch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Move.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, you’re like Techno sometimes. Fucking stubborn bitch. He can be so fucking pretentious sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur sighs, loudly. “Tommy-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no! Wilbur, let me speak for once.” I pause, out of pure spite. “Jesus. The man will not speak to you during lunch and god forbid make any sort of eye contact- but he does feel reciting quotes from The Art of War is fitting! He tries to seem so cool, but he’s just a pretentious asshole!” Wilbur rolls his eyes. I ignore him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s like… a scene kid or something with that pink hair.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur puts his hands on his face. Sucks to be him, I guess. People just can’t handle the truth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite my ramblings, Wilbur still stays situated by the sink. “Fucking move.” Turns out the guy doesn’t enjoy me talking about Mr. ‘Technoblade.’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If only Wilbur could drive, then we wouldn’t even have to bicker in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tommy, stop touching me,” he states. He’s clearly fibbing, not a single </span>
  <em>
    <span>hair</span>
  </em>
  <span> of mine is touching him. (And seriously, why would I want to touch his crusty looking jacket?)  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I refute. Seriously, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Besides, with all of teen angst, I should honestly stray fucking away from him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tommy, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop yelling.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He says sternly. There’s really no need for him to order me around like this, Jesus Christ. Who does he think he is?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your seatbelt is the thing that’s fucking touching you, dickhead!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tommy, don’t swear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I groan. Oh my fucking god, I hate this guy. He’s too fucking stuckup to admit that he was, in fact, fucking horribly </span>
  <em>
    <span>incorrect</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Shithead, it doesn’t matter if you get good grades, you fucking suck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You swear all the time, Wilbur,” I huff, shoving the other boy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wilbur glares at me as he opens his mouth again. “You’re younger than me,” he adds, “I don’t swear nearly as much as you do. Honestly Tommy, come up with a better rebuttal. Swearing is practically just in your internal dictionary. And you claim </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>have no manners.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s- That’s not the point here, Wilbur,” I reply, “Just say you’re wrong! You accuse me of shit all the fucking time!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Big Man</span>
  <span> Dad sighs and tells us to be quiet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I groan, slumping back into my seat. God, this is going to be a long ride.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>—vVvVv—</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>School is shit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Well, I wouldn’t say <em> shit. </em>It isn’t too bad, considering I’m still alive.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everything is fine, aside from that fact that I’m bullied every day and I usually have to cover up the bruises with makeup that stings and I’m getting low grades because I forget things at home and also in general as well as the fact that I’m in the foster home system so I could probably just move away from my friends at any time but <em> also </em> I don’t really have any friends except for this one guy who I’m not even sure likes me in the first place-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Actually, uh, yeah. School is shit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just a wonderful beginning to my day, huh? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It begins at around 6 AM, on a roof. I got up around 30 minutes prior to that, for doing stuff like brushing my teeth, getting dressed- your daily morning routine.</p>
<p>                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            </p>
<p>After a few minutes, I hopped down from my spot at the ledge. When I arrived at the apartment, I grabbed my grey backpack (which was stuffed with what was hopefully homework and my lunch.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I never liked the sound of school; the noise would always rush in and overwhelm you, leaving a sense of static on the way out. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It didn’t help when there were people there as well: running around as if they could do whatever they please, god forbid ever thinking of the people they shove while trying to get to their next class.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I stood there, for a bit, thinking about what my next class was- it wasn’t so much that I forgot, more so that I had spaced out for a couple seconds. </p>
<p>I take a few seconds to ground myself, and then I remember where I was going.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>English, right.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I work my way around the maze that is this school, and finally reach the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The teacher pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why are you late.. Again?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I, uh, forgot.” She sighed. I sighed, internally.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’re already been in school for a bit longer than a semester,” she continued, “That’s no excuse.” After that brief lecture, I was told to sit down. I looked at a few kids besides me, few having faces of pure disbelief, and more barely withstanding the urge to giggle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Moving on,” she gritted, “I need those essays in by tomorrow. Teachers need to get the grades in by Monday,” she added, moving her hand back and forth, shooing away students. “Go on, work.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I twirled my eraser around absentmindedly as I briefly flipped through the pages of ‘Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’. I looked at the kids around the room, some legitimately working, some nonchalantly using their phones. Maybe she just hates me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grabbing a pencil, I sighed. It wasn’t super efficient, writing everything down on paper, but I didn’t have the gut to ask the teacher if I could get my computer from my locker. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After an hour or so I got a decent amount done. It’s a draft at best, but honestly, pretty good in my book. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The rest of the day passed by as it typically would, but at this point, that’s a good thing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I was filled with dread the moment I entered the lunchroom. Most of the tables had been taken at that point (our school had a huge crowding issue- there were a lot of times that students had to sit on the floor due to a lack of desks.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I gulped and attempted to find a seat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After a bit of searching, I finally found one. I sat myself about a foot away from the next guy. He was reading a rather large book, I assumed it was about greek myths or something.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Finally, I said, “So, uh, nice weather today, huh?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>—vVvVv—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>School is shit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’m not <em> bad </em> at it, but it’s just… boring. You’re sitting in a poorly lit, dirty building for seven hours, and then you go home. What’s there to like?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I sit in the crowded lunchroom for around three minutes, picking out a table in the far back. It fills up pretty quickly, but no one sits next to me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which I guess is a perk of being infamous for, uh…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Let’s say my nickname is “The Blade” for a reason.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I continue flipping through the pages of my book, slowly picking at my lunch. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Hm. There’s someone behind me. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, uh, nice weather today, huh?” I peer behind his back, looking outside the window.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s 23 degrees.” I pause, “‘suppose you could like the cold though.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, uh, yeah, the cold, hm, — can I sit here?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t see why not. What brings you to this fine, incredibly dirty table in the corner of the cafeteria?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The other boy makes a confused face. “It’s uh, it’s lunch. I don’t know if you know this, but people <em> eat </em> at lunch.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I shrug, placing down my book to the side. “Well, you could also be here to speak with me,” I explain. “Somethin’ of that sort, perhaps.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The two-toned boy taps his fingers on the desk. “I’m Ranboo,” he starts. “Uh, I think we’re in the same.. Math class?” Ranboo has a puzzled look on his face, as if he’s trying to recall the layout of the room. It’s mildly amusing. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah,” I hum. “That’s right.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He nods, managing a weak smile. Frankly, he looks as though he’s resisting the urge to google “how to make small talk” on wikiHow or something of that sort. He shifts nervously, moving closer to me. Ranboo hums, looking out the window again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m Techno, ‘s nice to meet you.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, uh, it’s nice to meet you too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I smile.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading the first chapter, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! </p><p>if you’d like to follow me anywhere, i’m obliviousIntelligence on almost every platform. (except twitter, @ultimatemoboy on there.) :B </p><p>again- thank you much for reading, the next chapter should come out shortly!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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